Cormac his throat full of lentils

Looking around sat down how on Earth stammering boy
do you do it? A shame drooling what with buckshot
inching in or that plateau of folks agreed on comfort
groaning on their stake tell me what ever was their mantra?

They don’t know what it is to shave their ears away
or shy from a cacophony of their stumbling about their
relatives bent moaning on the temple steps they never tread,
or fork the crusts of their mothers prostrate on the bier.

That forehead doesn’t bear bindi much as we think it did.
It bore Southern wrinkles only folks born wrong get, or born
in the wrong most likely their footsteps tramples and stumbles
looking around at the toilets fine hillsides turned into shorn.